 I'm not too sure why this story aggravates my 'rrhoids. I feel a great deal of apathy toward the Hero of Chapaquiddick, struck down, at least potentially, in his dotage by a brain tumor. There's neither pleasure nor dismay at his imminent demise. I'm really not jealous over the fact that he owns a fifty-foot yacht that he can moor at his private pier off the clan's heavily-defended manor house. If I'd have chosen my parents better, I could have had that, too. Maybe it just galls me that this arrogant prique presumes to present himself as the champion of us horny-handed sons of toil. Or maybe it's the sure knowledge that when he does keel over, reeking of bourbon after groping a pretty but plebian serving wench on the asset, that his Senate seat will remain in the family, where it's been for the past 55 years, willed to whatever relative pleased him most, just like Marius or Sulla would have done. |